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This is suuuuuch a better option than uploading the photos individually...may have realized this a little late in the game...

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An example short for the Stills in Motion collab.

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This is the intro video for the Stills in Motion collab. I really hope you'll give it a shot!

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INT. CAFE - DAY
JIM and HANNAH, two average-looking twenty-somethings, sit at a table and drink coffee.


JIM: And so I was like “Listen, that’s not what I meant at all, I just was saying that/


HANNAH: Can I just say something?


JIM: What?


HANNAH: You talk in your sleep.


JIM: …Is this really what we’re going to talk about?


HANNAH: We absolutely are. You speak so damn loudly in your sleep.


JIM: Oh come on!


HANNAH: You kept me up all night! I can’t stay at your place anymore!


JIM: It’s not that bad, Hannah.


HANNAH: Are you kidding me?! It is exactly that bad.


JIM: I bet you’re just a light sleeper. Look at all that coffee you’re drinking. That can’t help.


HANNAH: I sleep fine. Except next to you.


JIM: So no more staying over? At all?


HANNAH: I don’t know. How’s your coffee by the way?


JIM: No, no don’t just drop a bomb like that and then change the subject!


HANNAH: I just wanted to let you know! You’re a sleep talker, Jim.


JIM: Well now I feel all self-conscious.



INT. JIM’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT
Jim places an audio recorder next to his bed and presses record. He slips under the sheets and turns off the light.


JIM: Alright Hannah, let’s see how bad this really is.



MORNING
Jim’s eyes open, and he yawns and stretches and looks over at the recording device. He stops recording and pulls out the SD card, and transfers it to his computer. He looks at the audio on his laptop and notices a section that is very, very loud.


JIM: Well maybe I do talk in my sleep…


He skips forward to it and hits ‘play’.


His eyes go wide and his jaw drops as he hears the recording. It’s Jim’s voice, screaming in terror and agony. Not even words, just noises. And along with Jim’s voice is another noise, something deep and guttural and certainly not human. There are sounds of a struggle, a fight, and it ends with sounds of a deathly scream and flesh being torn apart.


JIM: Holy shit.


Jim slams his laptop shut, fills a duffle bag with clothes, and leaves the apartment.



STREET
Jim is on the phone, shaking with fear.


JIM: Listen, Hannah, it’ll just be for a night…I can’t say…No…You just have to trust me, please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.



INT. HANNAH’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT
Jim and Hannah lie next to each other under the sheets.


HANNAH: Not at all?


JIM: I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ve never been so scared in my life.


HANNAH: Whoa. Is it, like, organized crime or something? Or is there a psycho in your building or/


JIM: No, nothing like that. I’ll tell you about it eventually, alright? Not now. I don’t want to think about it.


HANNAH: Fine.



LATER
Jim is still up. He looks over at the alarm clock; it’s 2 in the morning.



LATER
Still no sleep. Jim check the alarm clock again; it’s now 4 in the morning.



LATER
Still no sleep. The sun is starting to rise. The alarm clock reads 6:30, and Hannah groggily wakes up.



INT. HOTEL - LOBBY - NIGHT
Jim approaches the front desk.


JIM: Hi, I’d like a room.



HOTEL ROOM
Jim is sitting on the bed with his duffle bag next to him. He looks like a wreck, and he has a glass of liquor in his hand. He takes a sip and turns on the TV.



EARLY MORNING
The sun is just starting to come up, and Jim is still watching TV. Still no sleep.



SUBWAY
Jim sits, staring at nothing, completely out of it. There are massive dark bags under his eyes.



INT. JIM’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - AFTERNOON
Jim is holding a camera in his hands. He’s set it to record video, and he presses the record button. He hides it under some laundry on his dresser, pointed at him. Terrified, he lies in bed, but he almost immediately succumbs to sleep.



MORNING
Jim’s eyes flash open, and he immediately pulls himself out of bed and checks the camera. He looks at the footage, its screen hidden from our view. He screams and almost drops the camera as he watches the footage, and more gut-wrenching noises come from his camera’s tiny speaker. Jim crumples into the wall behind him, his eyes glued to the screen.


JIM: Oh my god. Oh god no…


A faint noise comes from behind Jim’s bedroom door, and he falls silent in an instant. It’s little more than a whisper, but it’s enough to give away its source. It’s deep, guttural, and certainly not human. The area around the door starts to turn dark, as though the light is being bled away.


Jim whimpers as he sees the darkness spreading across his room. His eyes dart toward his window and the fire escape, and he sprints towards them.



EXT. JIM’S APARTMENT BUILDING
Jim slides the window open and pulls himself out. He turns around to see what’s behind him, just as something from the room grabs his ankle and drags him back inside in a blink of an eye. That same disturbing noise escapes from the apartment, but only for a moment before the window slams shut, seemingly on its own. Darkness envelops the limited view inside the apartment. Any sounds that might come from inside are drowned by the noise of the city streets.


CUT TO BLACK

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Headphones!

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Dear Mr. Henry Adam Wood,


I am familiar with your illness, and thank you for reminding me of your tryst with my wife.


This may come as a surprise to you, but I believe I have a first-rate understanding of your condition. In fact, I believe I am the leading authority on your condition, seeing as I am your doctor.


I have told you this on multiple occasions, most perplexingly as you wrote your adultery confession of a letter to me. Your verbal response, a stern nod and some vague mention of packaged biscuits, hardly inspired confidence. I write this letter in the hopes that you might actually acknowledge me as a person, seeing as I am your attending physician.


Sincerely,


Dr. Alfred Tipton


 


p.s. I’d estimate that you have four days left…best of luck with your letters

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EXT. HOUSE - FRONT DOOR - DAY


PHIL, a door-to-door salesman, approaches the front door. He’s in the midst of preparing his briefcase and pamphlets and whathaveyou. He rings the doorbell, straitens his tie, and waits.


RAY, a man in his fifties, opens the door. The look on his face- a mixture of boredom and joylessness- has been his only expression for years. There’s no change in demeanor whatsoever as Ray realizes there’s a salesman in front of him.


RAY: Hey.


PHIL: Hi there, I’m Phil Lang, pleasure to meet you.


Phil aggressively extends his hand, and Ray looks at it for several seconds before reluctantly deciding to shake it.


RAY: …


PHIL: Well I’ll just get straight to the point, then. I’m selling bags.


RAY: What?


PHIL: Bags. Everyone needs them, I’m selling them.


RAY: I can get bags anywhere. This is ridiculous.


Ray starts to close the door.


PHIL: Wait! Wait! You can get bags anywhere, but what do you do with those bags?


Ray pauses for a beat and looks at Phil. Reluctantly, he remains in the doorframe.


PHIL: I sell bags for bags.


RAY: Bags for bags?


PHIL: You put all of your bags in these bags, thus keeping them bagged and orderly.


RAY: And what do you do with those bags?


PHIL: Which bags?


RAY: The bags for the bags.


PHIL: I’ve got bags for them as well.


RAY: Bags for the bags for the bags?


PHIL: Exactly.


RAY: And what about those bags?


PHIL: The bags for bags for bags?


RAY: Yeah.


PHIL: There are bigger bags for those bags.


RAY: Huh.


PHIL: Makes sense, doesn’t it?


Ray sighs and stares at the ground. The self-loathing expression is stronger than ever. Finally, he looks back up at Phil.


RAY: Yeah, yeah I guess it does.


PHIL: It does?


RAY: Yeah, of course it does.


PHIL: Great! What are we thinking then, what’ll you have?


RAY: I’ll have everything.


PHIL: Every-wait, what? Everything?!


RAY: I’ll have everything. How many bags will I be able to fit in these bags?


PHIL: So many bags. How many bags do you have?


RAY: Come to think of it…I don’t think I have any bags.


Phil’s face lights up.


PHIL: Then it sounds like someone could use some bags!


RAY: Not bags for bags, just bags.


PHIL: Exactly! And inside those bags, you can hold a bunch of mini bags.


Ray holds up his hand.


RAY: Phil, Phil, Phil, hold up…you’re telling me there are bags that go inside of bags as well?


PHIL: Of course! The bags that go inside of bags are quite possibly the most important of bags!


RAY: Well now I’ll need to get some things to go in these bags, won’t I?


PHIL: Let’s just start with bags.

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INT. WEIRD TAXIDERMY ROOM


A bunch of taxidermied animals lurk on shelves in a creepy old room. 


HARRY THE SQUIRREL: Hey Richie, you going to the shindig?


TONY THE RABBIT: There’s a shindig?


HARRY: I wasn’t talking to you, Tony, damn it...I was talking to Richie.


RICHIE THE OWL: There’s a shindig?


HARRY: Hell yeah there’s a shindig! You going?


RICHIE: When is it?


HARRY: Starts at eleven, but it probably won’t pick up until midnight. It’s gonna be off-the-walls crazy. I’m so excited, I can’t even feel my skin.


TRUDY THE FOX: We’re starting at ten now. It’s gonna be such an awesome shindig.


TONY: I wanna go, guys!


TRUDY: Keep that up and you won’t be invited, Tony.


TONY: …


HARRY: We’re starting at ten now?


TRUDY: Yeah, because why the hell not?


RICHIE: This sounds like a pretty cool shindig, guys. Harry, Trudy, you guys are great.


TRUDY: Aw, thanks Richie.


HARRY: It’s gonna be insane!


 


LATER


Nobody has moved, what with being stuffed and inanimate. A mistake of a song plays in the background.


RICHIE: Wow guys, this is awesome. This exceeds all expectations.


HARRY: I’m just gonna say it, this is the best shindig we’ve ever thrown.


TONY: Definitely.


TRUDY: Damn it, who let Tony in?!


CUT TO BLACK

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1281 Hits
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I went for a grim sort of sound, and it kinda snowballed into this super gloomy thing. It's still rough around the edges and repetitive, and I don't know where to go with it...I figure I might as well put it up!

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The dull haze of the city’s night sky lies above me as I meander through the streets, block by block. It smells like diesel and piss and fresh rain, but I’m accustomed to these smells and they simply tell me that I’m home. Small birds sing verse after verse, following me down the rows of trees that each sit like an island in the surrounding sea of concrete. Only the occasional car horn or siren interrupts their song.


I’ve had a lot to drink, and I have the sense that I was with people earlier; names and faces forgotten between two shots and a trip to the bathroom. The steps taken between the bar and the random sidewalk I occupy are implied, not remembered. I don’t trust myself to do anything but walk while my mind drags so heavily and my blood feels so warm.


These city streets seem completely devoid of people, their presence only inferred through the sounds and smells of their creations. I don’t see anyone. I don’t even feel human in this moment, as though I’ve been reduced to nothing more than a presence. A wandering eye in a labyrinth of sensations. The song birds are my guides, and even if we’re only following each other, I know we’ll find an end in time. The starless sky is a blank canvass unto which/


“Where are you going?! This way! This way!”


I turn and see a handful of familiar faces, all looking at me. A city of people appears in an instant, flooding the sidewalks in kinetic currents that completely overwhelm my senses. I stand in shock as my friends watch on.


“How long have you been with me?” I ask.


They laugh. “All night,” one of them replies. His name is Tom, I remember now. He’s a good friend of mine, and I feel ashamed that I could forget such a person.


“Are you alright?” asks Ashley. My memory is slowly returning like fog on a window.


The birds have stopped following me, and their songs are consumed by the conversations of passers-by and car horns. The moment is over. I nod, not knowing if I’m acknowledging my friend or myself, and follow their lead into the night.

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1630 Hits
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